Rise, Oh My Soul, With Thy Desires To Heaven
1. Rise, oh my Soul, with thy desires to Heaven,
And with Divinest contemplation, use
Thy time, where times eternity is given,
And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse:
But down in darkness let them lie,
So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die.
2. And thou, my Soul, inspir'd with holy flame,
View and review with most regardful eye,
That holy Cross whence thy salvation came,
On which thy Saviour, and thy sin did die:
For in that Sacred object is much pleasure,
And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure.
3. To thee (O Jesu) I direct my eye,
To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees,
To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice,
To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees:
To thee my self, my self and all I give;
To thee I die, to thee I only live.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Burning Of Paules
Lament eche one the blazing fire
That downe from heaven came,
And burnt S. Powles his lofty spyre
With lightnings furious flame.
Lament, I say,
Both night and day,
Sith London's sins did cause the same.
The fire came downe from heaven soone,
But did not strike the crosse,
At fower in the afternoone,
To our most grevous losse.
Could nothing stay
The sad decay:
The lead was molten into drosse.
For five long howers the fire did burn
The roof and timbers strong:
The bells fell downe, and we must mourne,
The wind it was so strong,
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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When Flora had O'erfret the Firth
QUHEN Flora had o'erfret the firth
In May of every moneth queen;
Quhen merle and mavis singis with mirth
Sweet melling in the shawis sheen;
Quhen all luvaris rejoicit bene
And most desirous of their prey,
I heard a lusty luvar mene
—'I luve, but I dare nocht assay!'
'Strong are the pains I daily prove,
But yet with patience I sustene,
I am so fetterit with the luve
Only of my lady sheen,
Quhilk for her beauty micht be queen,
Nature so craftily alway
Has done depaint that sweet serene:
—Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay.
'She is so bricht of hyd and hue,
I luve but her alone, I ween;
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Zepheria: Canzon. 1
Lvld in an heauenly Charme of pleasing passions,
Many their well thewd rimes doe fayre attemper
Vnto their amours, while another fashions
Loue to his lines, and he on fame doth venter.
And some againe in mercinary writ
Belch forth desire, making reward their Mistresse:
And though it chaunce some Lais Patron it,
At least they sell her prayses to the presse.
The Muses Nurse I reade is Euphemie,
And who but honor makes his lines reward,
Comes not by my consent within my petigree,
'Mongst true borne sonnes enherit may no bastard.
All in the humble accent of my Muse,
Whose wing may not aspire the pitch of fame,
My grieues I here vnto ombe, sweete them peruse.
Though low he flye, yet honor is his game,
All while my pen quests on Zepherias name,
Whom when it sprung thy wing did thee releeue,
Now flowne to marke, thus doth desire thee retreeue.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Verses
The sturdy rock, for all his strength,
By raging seas, is rent in twaine;
The marble stone is pearst at length
With littel drops of drizzling raine:
The ox doth yield unto the yoke,
The steele obeyeth the hammer-stroke.
The stately stagge, that seemes as stout
By yalping hounds at day is set;
The swiftest bird, that flies about,
Is caught at length in fowler's net:
The greatest fish, in deepest brooke,
Is soon deceiv'd by subtill hooke.
Yea, man himselfe, unto whose will
All thinges are bounden to obey,
For all his wit and worthie skill,
Doth fade at length and fall away:
There nothing is but Time doth waste;
The heavens, the earth comsume at last.
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Towneley Plays. The Shepherds' Play, II.
Primus Pastor
Haylle, comly and clene! Haylle, yong child!
Haylle, maker, as I meyne, of a madn so mylde!
Thou has waryd, I weyne the warlo so wylde;
The fals gyler of teyn, now goys he begylde.
Lo, he merys;
Lo, he laghys, my swetyng,
A wel fare metyng,
I have holden my hetyng;
Have a bob of cherys.
Secundus Pastor
Haylle, sufferan savyoure! for thou has us soght;
Haylle, frely foyde and floure that all thyng has wroght!
Haylle, full of favoure that made all of noght!
Haylle! I kneyll and I cowre. A byrd haue I broght
To my barne.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Of a Rose, a Lovely Rose, Of a Rose is Al myn Song
Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge,
How this rose began to sprynge;
Swych a rose to myn lykynge
In al this word ne knowe I non.
The aungil came fro hevene tour
To grete Marye with gret honour,
And seyde sche xuld bere the flour
That xulde breke the fyndes bond.
The flour sprong in heye Bedlem,
That is bothe bryht and schen:
The rose is Mary, hevene qwen,
Out of here bosum the blosme sprong.
The ferste braunche is ful of myht,
That sprong on Crystemesse nyht,
The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht
That is bothe brod and long.
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Spring-tide
Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen and with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Uch foul song singeth;
The threstelcoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth;
Thise foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere wunne wele,
That all the wode ryngeth.
The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fille;
Wowes thise wilde drakes,
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Ew-Bughts Marion. A Scottish Song.
Will ze gae to the ew-bughts, Marion,
And wear in the sheip wi' mee?
The sun shines sweit, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweit as thee.
O Marion's a bonnie lass,
And the blyth blinks in her ee;
And fain wad I marrie Marion,
Gin Marion wad marrie mee.
Theire's gowd in zour garters, Marion;
And siller on zour white haussbane;
Fou faine wad I kisse my Marion
At eene quhan I cum hame.
Theire's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion,
Quha gape and glowr wi' their ee
At kirk, quhan they see my Marion;
Bot nane of them lues like mee.
Ive nine milk-ews, my Marion,
A cow and a brawney quay;
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The Birch Trees
Blessed is the birch in the valley of Gwy
Whose branches will fall off one by one, two by two
It will remain when there will be a battle in Ardudwy
And the lowing together of the cattle about the ford of Mochnwy
And spears and shouting at Dyganwy
And Edwin bearing sway in Mona
And youths pale and light
In ruddy clothes commanding them.
Blessed is the birch in Pumlumon
Which will see when the front of the stage shall be exalted
and which will see Franks clad in mail
About the hearth food for whelps
And monks frequently riding on steeds.
Blessed is the birch in the heights of Dinwythy
Which will know when there shall be a battle in Ardudwy
And spears uplifted around Edrywy
And a bridge in the Taw, and another on the Tawy
And another, on account of a misfortun, on the banks of the Gwy
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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